


Three Times Taken

by vanessa_cardui



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Ghost Sex, Oral Sex, Temptation, Vaginal Sex, unwanted arousal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 21:45:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11299461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanessa_cardui/pseuds/vanessa_cardui
Summary: "You are dead," she said.He made no answer, but his hand reached out, a broken, twisted thing of bone and of dark smoke, and it seized Éowyn around her throat, as cold as death, colder, so cold and so strong that she could not breathe at all.





	Three Times Taken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Septemberific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Septemberific/gifts).



The first time the Witch King of Angmar took Éowyn, it was the night after she had slain him. Éowyn was near insensible, dreaming confused dreams of power and dread, of death and doom, seeing her uncle and king trapped beneath the ruin of his horse, seeing the hope of all the world dying on the battlefield. He came to her at night, when she was not sure if she was asleep or awake; there was a constant throb of pain from her arm, which he had broken, and her hand, which had slain him.

He was a shadow within the shadows, just as he had been upon the field of battle. He wore no crown, and his mantle flapped through the darkness of the room in which Éowyn lay, unseen by any beside her.

"You are dead," she said.

He made no answer, but his hand reached out, a broken, twisted thing of bone and of dark smoke, and it seized Éowyn around her throat, as cold as death, colder, so cold and so strong that she could not breathe at all. She could not even struggle; her arms and legs were like lead. She writhed in his grip, as he cast her blankets off from her, his other hand tracing the lines of her wounds, delighting in them, so cold, so deadly cold.

Then he lay down upon her in the darkness of that room. When he released her throat, Éowyn thought to scream, but she could not; it was as though the cold of his hand had left a collar of ice around her throat, sealing it but for a wisp of air that rattled and wheezed as he pulled her skirt off from her hips and lay down upon her. He was cold on her skin, everywhere, as though he was made of ice, and then he was cold between her thighs, cold and stiff and broad as a pikestaff. She shivered uncontrollably, as he pushed into her, cold within the heat of her, pushing and rending into her over and over, until there was a strange heat in Éowyn's belly to match the ice between her thighs, until a chill came from him and into her, spreading into her belly and her bones.

Then he was gone as though he had never been there, and it was as though she had dreamed it all, amidst the dark dreams that were dispelled by the king who returned to claim his crown.

The second time the Witch King of Angmar took Éowyn, she knew it was no dream. Faramir had taken Elboron with him to walk the marches of Ithilien, to see and be seen on the villages along the Anduin. This was a great adventure for Elboron, who was four, and who had sat so straight and tall upon his pony that Éowyn thought her heart would burst with pride. She remained behind, to attend to the duties of the Steward while the Steward was away, and the Witch King came upon her unexpectedly in a corridor, laying his hand upon her shoulder.

She turned at the touch, but she knew who it was by the chill of it. She could see him that time, see his face in the light of the sun. An old-young face; unlined, but with the weight of centuries on it, behind eyes that were as gray and as cold and as pitiless as storm clouds in winter. There was a scar across his brow and down the side of his face, which looked like the cut ought to have killed him.

Éowyn tried to scream, but it caught in her throat, tried to run, but her legs would not answer. All the pain that had healed and faded long ago in the Halls of Healing came back to her then, in her arm and her hand and her side. He reached out, put his hand around her throat; his grip was ice and steel, and Éowyn could not resist it. She had stood against him, she had killed him, but that was when the heat of battle was on her, that was when she had her king and protector relying upon her. There was no heat in her then, just the ice-cold hand, forcing her down to her knees, forcing her breath into a wheezing rattle, a collar that remained in place, even when he let her neck loose and closed his fist in her hair.

They wore collars like that in Angmar. She knew it then. Comely young maidens and comely young men, those taken as captives, and those who had been given as tribute to the lords of the land. And those young men and women--some of them would have felt the same chill in their necks, the same hand knotting in their hair, pulling them forward, into the ice hardness of the king of that land. Perhaps some of them also felt the same heat in their loins as they opened their mouths for him, felt their hands warm against the ice of his flesh, felt his shuddering climax in their mouths, the ice which spread down through them as they swallowed. But they would not have seen him vanish into the air when he was done, a shade who had held on by strength of will alone.

The third time the Witch King of Angmar took Éowyn, Elboron was a grown man, a captain in the armies of Gondor, and Faramir was seated upon Gondor's throne in the place of its king who was treating with the Dwarves of Moria. She had lain down to sleep when he came into her chamber. It was no dream this time, Éowyn knew that. But it almost might have been. He had dwindled since she had killed him. Each time, he had dwindled--the first time, he still had the power of his lord upon him, still had the form that Sauron had given his servant. The second time, much of that had faded, and he was almost who he had been before the ring had consumed him. Now he was a ghost, a wraith that walked by night, his face and form shifting and indistinct.

But he still had his hatred for the woman who had slain him, and Éowyn still felt the grip of ice that he had put around her neck. He fell upon her, in her own bed, pushed her skirts aside, and forced himself between her thighs, pushing, and Éowyn found herself pushing back, as though it was a war between them, as though she faced him again on the battlefield. She did not try to cry out this time, but only met his thrusts with equal vigor, her heat against his cold, her fingers twining with his until his fingers vanished along with the rest of him, as the cold spread, and spread further, pooling in her, as he spent all that he had left.

When he had finished, she was alone, fully alone. And there, on the bed beside her, was a simple ring, forged of black steel. Éowyn knew it for what it was. The ring Aléme, the greatest of the nine rings that Sauron had given to mortal men. It had dwindled with the destruction of the master ring. Dwindled, but it was still potent. If she took it up, she would have some of the power that the Witch King had possessed. She would not die, not unless she willed it, and there would be few who could stand against her, if she took to the field of battle.

If she took it up, she would be wearing that ice chain around her finger as well as her neck; if she took it up, she would never be free of the spirit of he would had worn it.

Éowyn took the ring down to the smithy, laid it upon an anvil, and struck it with one of the smith's great hammers. It had been many years since she had been a shield maiden of Rohan, but her hand had not lost its strength, and her eye had not lost its cunning. With the destruction of the master ring, there was no enough strength left in the nine to resist even that. It shattered, and the ice that clutched at her heart, ever since she had slain the Witch King of Angmar warmed, and cracked, and broke, and Éowyn daughter of Éomund and Theodwyn sat down beside the anvil and wept.


End file.
